


Nothing Dearer Than A Daughter

by bacondestiny



Category: Strange the Dreamer Series - Laini Taylor
Genre: Canon-Typical Allusions to Offscreen Sexual Assault, Canon-Typical Mentions of Offscreen Child Murder, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, and his immense guilt re: that, and subsequent salvation, and that's for like. 2 lines, canon character death, despite the fact he tried to kill her as a toddler, exploring eril-fane's unconditional love for his daughter, lazlo/sarai not the major focus here but is featured. also i love them., mentions of others - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 12:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17101001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacondestiny/pseuds/bacondestiny
Summary: Eight-year-old Sarai thinks up a way to torment her father, and things end up better, worse, and, ultimately, the same.





	Nothing Dearer Than A Daughter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LostWendy1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostWendy1/gifts).



> dedicated to LostWendy1, since she has very kindly let me scream at her about my many, many thoughts and emotions about these books.
> 
> This picks up right at the end of part two of Strange the Dreamer, when the silk sleigh lands outside the city, and then spirals into the past and back to the present in a hopefully coherent fashion. "Anyanzi" is a word in Unseen that I made up that's basically an equivalent for "darling" and only used with children.  
> TW: uh, i guess everything that happened pre-canon is at least alluded to here, but it's all pretty mild.

“But the girl,” Lazlo said. He hesitated.

The flight down from the citadel had been rough, and his hearts were still racing. So the girl from his dreams was not Isagol the Terrible, but she was real. She was blue. She was up in the citadel even now, perhaps still grappling with--what? Was it only she and the ghosts up there? Was it some final punishment from the gods, that the dead of Weep should protect their last survivor, even if she didn’t wish it? Was she a survivor? If she was not Isagol, as Azareen had said, then who was she? 

“She was neither,” he finished. Neither ghost nor body, alive in every way. 

Eril-Fane, who was deathly pale and had been silent the whole ride, took his face out of his shaking hands. “No,” he rasped, eyes shining in anguish, but with something else, too. Something like . . . joy. Relief. _Salvation._

_“She’s real.”_

***

The dreams had started almost six years after the uprising.

He’d had nightmares in all that time, of course. Terrible ones that had only gotten worse with time, and he would wake in terror, in grief, in shame. His jaw was sore from clenching, his body tense and painful. He did not cry, he did not scream. He couldn’t, after Isagol. 

But it took six years for the girl to show up. 

_“Why, Papa?”_

She came to him in his garden, or in his sitting room, or in the kitchen. She crawled onto his lap, wriggling and brown. For a few seconds--minutes, even--he was delighted to see her. She was his daughter, and they were home. Azareen was her mother, and she was there, smiling at her family, kissing giggles from the little girl. His mother was in the corner, both her hands working on supper, knitting, reading a book.

“Why, Papa?” she asked. Her voice was the voice of any young child, clear and high. Her skin was brown, but her hair was turning red, color spilling from her roots down her curls.

“Why what, anyanzi?” He smoothed his hand over her head as if checking for fever.

“Why’d you do it?” She blinked up at him, just curious. “Was I bad?”

“No, no, you haven’t been bad. You’re innocent.”

The room vanished, leaving them sitting on nothing, in the dark. Her skin was paling, reaching the white of death. 

“Daring, darling,” he said, panicking. “What’s happening? Are you hurt?”

 _“You’re happening. You already happened.”_ Her voice echoed in this void, filling the space around them. _“I’m hurt so bad, Papa. Why?”_

Her skin was blue. Her eyes had always been blue. Her hair was red, but her blood was darker, streaming from her scalp. It streaked down her face, painting lines, dampening her hair. It stained his hands. She looked at him, curious and sad.

_“Why did you kill me, Papa?”_

***

Eril-Fane could not scream or cry, but the dream made him sick. It wracked him with convulsions, ripping his body apart from the inside out. He kneeled over in his washroom for hours, trembling, seeing the little girl, seeing the children in the nursery. Which one had been his daughter?

A moth was perched on the window, observing. A little girl halted her pace on a balcony, eyes wide and mouth wobbling. 

“Good job,” Minya said in the morning, nasty grin in place. “That’s really clever, Sarai. _Good. Job.”_

The dream stayed, for years and years. The girl grew older, the calm longer. She would help her mother--Azareen, for who else would it be?--in the kitchen, her grandmother in the garden, himself tidy the house. She would ride his shoulders through Weep, or swing herself between his and Azareen’s hands. She ate cakes and bread, caught butterflies, wished in wells. But always, her hair faded red, her skin paled blue, and she asked _“why, Papa?”_ with her big sad eyes, hurt and lonely. 

He couldn’t look at Azareen, could barely at his mother. He’d killed his daughter as a baby, and her ghost was back to haunt him, wondering why.

_“Was I bad?”_

No. No, she hadn’t been bad. None of the children had done anything wrong, and still, he’d slaughtered them. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her. He clutched her hand and kneeled before her, a worthless, inadequate apology. “My child, my child, _I’m sorry.”_

“Sorry doesn’t bring me back,” she told him. Her voice didn’t echo. He couldn’t make himself look at her, not because of her skin, but because of her blood. “It doesn’t bring any of us back.”

And what could he say to that?

The dream stayed. But . . . it changed. When she looked to be ten, eight years after the revolution, the dreams shifted. The calm never melted away. Her skin didn’t fade blue; it always was. He didn’t think anything of it. He kissed her red hair and Azareen ruffled it, she darted around, eager to help. She played dolls in the garden, chased her cat through the halls, grabbed bread from the hook. She went to school, played with friends, got her bleeding and her elilith with Azareen holding her hand. She chattered at him, silly and sweet, and he told her stories and taught her about plants.

Waking up from those was almost worse. 

His daughter could have had that life. She’d been no more than two: he still remembered her birthday--at least, the day Isagol had gone into labor. She would have been fifteen when he left Weep. 

The dreams did not disappear, but they changed. They lost their edge, their consistency. Sometimes, they were nightmares once again. She was eight, bleeding out in his lap, or she was ten and drowning in a river of blood, or she was thirteen and Guldan stabbed her instead of tattooing her stomach. She was a toddler cooing in his arms and he slit her throat. She was fifteen and Isagol took her to the citadel again, to make his baby a weapon. She was eighteen and lovely, and Skathis took her to the sky, never brought her back. Even in his dreams, he could not cry for her. 

She turned sixteen while he was crossing the Elmuthaleth, seventeen just after he left the kingdom of Zosma. He kneeled in his tent and bowed to the ground in prayer, asking the seraphim to watch over her soul. His great shoulders shook with chained sobs, and if Lazlo Strange saw through the flap, he said nothing. 

Eril-Fane returned to Weep, and to the only home he'd ever truly known. He wondered, settling into his pillow, if, like a fairy in Lazlo’s stories, returning here would conjure her back again, as real as she had been before. It did. At first, she hugged him, delighted, and he kissed her forehead and presented her with trinkets he hadn’t really collected from the outside world. She was overjoyed to see him, and he was even happier to see his little daughter, grown so much in his absence, a beautiful young woman. He'd shown her the sea and the shore, castles and candy shops. She'd had fun, innocent, giggly fun. But as the night when on, she became agitated, frantic. She begged him to stay away from the citadel, her eyes filling with blood, gripping his hand and pleading, screaming. _“Don’t come! You can’t. Please, please, don’t come. Papa, if you do, it will end us.”_

He expected it. His daughter was fifteen years dead, a skeleton for him to find in a cradle, and his subconscious didn’t think he could handle it. 

Except . . . she wasn’t. 

_“Go!”_ she cried, in anguished panic, framed in the doorway to what had been his and Isagol’s bedroom. Her arm was bleeding red, her red hair was slipping over her shoulders, her blue eyes were wild. Her arms were waving as if to shoo them. She was maybe thirty feet away. “Run, _run!_ You have to--” she was dragged by--something--back into the citadel “--go! Get away, _go! R--!”_

“Anyanzi,” Eril-Fane choked, hand freezing, then spasming on the hilt of his hreshtek. In that moment, he had wanted to run. He’d wanted to free her from whatever she was grappling with and embrace her and _understand,_ but he wasn’t able to because the ghosts came. Just like she’d warned.

His daughter was real. She was alive. She was blue. She was young. So, so young, and so brave, and so sad.

He’d retreated to Azareen’s home--the home they’d shared for five burning nights--ostensibly to plan, but they ended up sitting in different rooms, faces in their hands. He couldn’t face his mother, who knew the vaguest of details about the dreams. Not yet.

It took hours for him to fall asleep that night. He stared up at the citadel, squinting at the collarbone, as though if he just looked hard enough, he could see his daughter. The baby girl he hadn’t murdered. When he finally caved to the emotional exhaustion, the waiting moth landed on his brow and took him to see her.

***

It felt as though he just blinked, and when he opened his eyes, the girl was there. Sitting across him in Azareen’s parlor, like he’d dreamed a thousand times before. But this time she was grave, guarded; the blue arm that had been bleeding was bandaged with green cloth, held to her chest protectively. Her hair was braided with red flowers. She was tired, fragile, anxious.

“Hello, Eril-Fane,” she said quietly. She didn’t meet his eyes. She had always called him “Papa,” before then.

“You’re real,” he whispered. 

“Yes.” She glanced at him, away again. “You haven’t told anyone.”

She had not said it as a question, but still he said, “No. No, I--I haven’t.”

“Will you?”

Eril-Fane struggled for an answer. He didn’t know what to do. The citadel he’d vowed to bring down was full of ghosts, and his dream-daughter was alive and living there. He couldn’t end the project and sent the faranji away; neither could he leave his daughter up there; neither could he bring her down to a city that would kill her on sight. 

She took in his silence, his helpless open mouth. She curled into herself, drawing her knees up and hiding in them. 

“What is your name?” he asked, swallowing. She looked up in shock, blue eyes wet and blinking. 

“What?” she choked.

“In all these years, you’ve never said. I’ve wondered . . .”

“Oh.” She shook her head. “It’s Sarai.” 

“Sarai,” he repeated. His voice was rough as sandpaper. His daughter had a name, and here it was, after all these years. Here she was. “Sarai. Hello, Sarai.”

She looked away again. He didn’t know how she could bear to look at him at all. 

“The dreams, all these years. Have . . . did you send them? Is this really you?”

“It’s really me,” she said. “I sent most of them. I can’t get to you if you’re not in Weep.” She paused. “I’m sorry. About the nightmares. Minya made me, and I didn’t . . . I couldn’t see that it was wrong.” She bit her lip. “I guess I should apologize for all the rest, too. I trespassed in your dreams for years to--to give myself some escape, when I had no--no right to. I’m sorry--”

Eril-Fane was horrified to see her tears. For more than seven years, he had dreamed of being not her just father but her _papa,_ and perhaps it was instinct left over that made him stand and rush to her. “No, no,” he said vehemently, placing his hands on her shoulders. “No, you did nothing wrong. Sarai, my child, you had every right to build yourself a life in my head. I stole your life from you. I welcome you here.”

She looked at him, chin wobbling. Then she threw herself at him, arms around his neck, face in his shoulder, and he held her as he had before in dreams. Never had he focused so on the heat of her, the weight and sharpness of her body. She was too thin; she couldn’t be eating well in the citadel. Her tears were hot, her sobs wracked her body. He could feel the silk of her bandage where her forearm rested on the back of his neck, and his hands, which felt far too big, crushed the flowers in her hair. 

He hushed her, stroking her hair. The force of his daughter’s sobs shook him, so it took him a moment to realize that he, too, was trembling. He couldn’t weep, not yet. But he could feel his daughter’s pain.

“Minya told me what to do, and I was so little, I was only six, I didn’t know any better,” Sarai was saying. “So I gave you nightmares, I gave all of Weep nightmares, and I didn’t know. But I kept seeing how--I kept seeing families, and I had the Ellens and the others, but I knew who you were and I--first I wanted to use that against you, because you remembered me in Isagol. But then I just--I realized what the gods had done and why you did it and how cruel I was being and I didn’t want to be cruel; I just wanted--” she hiccuped. “I wanted to be somebody’s daughter,” she whispered.

“You are,” he promised. “Sarai, you are. You’re my daughter, and I am so sorry. I don’t . . . I don’t know what I can do, yet, but I will not, I will _never,_ let anyone hurt you. I--I can come up again, and meet you. Meet you . . . all, and we can work something out.” 

“You can’t,” she said, voice catching on can’t. She fell back on the chair and wiped her eyes. “Minya won’t let anyone who comes up here live. Certainly not you.”

He flinched. “Who is this Minya?”

“She saved--me, during the Carnage. She controls the ghosts, and she’s . . . she’s still stuck in that day. You saw. She’s very angry.”

Eril-Fane hesitated. “And you? Are you . . . ?”

Sarai shook her head slowly. “I’ve seen the nightmares of Weep, what people remember about the gods. I’ve seen what you remember about . . . my mother. They deserved to die.” She looked at him. “But we didn’t. The Carnage is unforgivable.”

Something in him--perhaps the last thing not yet ruined--shattered, and he hung his head, too heavy with shame to hold up.

“But . . . I think I understand,” she whispered. “After everything, I understand why you thought it necessary.”

Eril-Fane was on the floor before her, where he’d rushed to her to soothe her tears. One knee bent and the other on the carpet, his arms now crossed on his knee. It was the position of a warrior before his lady; the same one he’d assumed when he’d begged forgiveness from a child years ago. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t ask.

But he watched, peering through his lashes, as her slim hands, blue as opals, took his. 

He bowed, then, pressing his forehead onto their joint hands. He remembered all his dreams, the life his child had built for herself. The one she would’ve had if her skin was brown. 

She said nothing. They spent the night in a silence that was heavy with the weight of corpses. 

But she didn’t pull away.

***

“Mother,” Eril-Fane said, blundering into her house early the next morning. After dawn, after his child had melted away in the sunlight.

After a while, she’d slumped against his shoulder. He thought she’d fallen asleep, which was bizarre since it was a dream, but he’d just adjusted his hold on her to keep her up. He’d held her like this plenty of times; he knew what to do. But after a long time, the sky in the window started to lighten, and she woke up. 

“I’m going to disappear when the sun rises,” she told him as she turned to face the window. She kept her head against his neck, blinking sleepily. 

“Must you? Anyanzi, you seem exhausted.” He said this like he wasn’t desperate to keep her in his sight, fearful of what could happen to her in that citadel full of murderous ghosts. Like he could keep her safe, if he kept her in his mind, which was very far from true.

“The moths turn into smoke in sunlight,” she mumbled. Eril-Fane frowned, no idea what that meant. “I’ll come tomorrow night. And you’ll know it’s me.”

Eril-Fane had kissed her forehead a thousand times, but things had been different then. He settled for smoothing her hair down. “Is there anything you’d like me to do? I could dream up cake, or your kitten Miriam, or . . .” 

She giggled. “Sure. And I’ll take us to the wingsmiths.” She pulled away to look at him, rubbing her eye with her fist. The first beam of sunlight seemed to set her hair aflame, and it was completely different from how the sun had played with Isagol’s hair. “Thank you,” she said, and slipped from existence. 

“Mother,” he said now, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Eril-Fane,” she said brightly. “You didn’t even come home last night. Lazlo was in a strange mood.”

There had been a period, when his daughter--Sarai, Sarai, it meant princess, his daughter had a name and he knew it--was still sending nightmares, when he couldn’t look at his mother. Suheyla, obviously, hadn’t let him get away with it for a hot minute.

“Eril-Fane,” she’d said, hand and stump on her waist. “You tell me what’s the matter with you this instant.”

It had spilled out, the dreams of a little girl who turned blue and bloody and called him Papa. “One of them was mine,” he’d said, strangled by guilt and shame. “I remember Isagol carrying her, I remember feeling the baby kick, I remember the day she went into labor. The first of Thirdmoon. Isagol never mentioned it again, she never even knew if the baby was a boy or a girl. I asked, and she shrugged. But this child is a little girl with Isagol’s hair and your chin and my smile. She’s so real, because she _was_ real, and _I killed her.”_

He’d pressed his face into his knuckles and trembled. His mother had comforted him, of course she had, but Eril-Fane could tell that she was--that she’d been--he didn’t know. He’d saved all of Weep and she was proud, but he’d killed babies and she was disgusted and horrified and disappointed. He’d killed his own baby--nevermind he didn’t know which one it was--and there was nothing in the world, no possible reason or excuse, that could ever make that forgivable.

But _he hadn’t killed her._

“Mother,” he said, “Do you remember the dreams I had?”

She immediately set down the pail of eggs. “Of course I do,” she said gently. “Did they . . .”

“You remember how I told you, after a few years, they stopped being nightmares?”

“I remember you said those were worse.” She frowned. “So being away from Weep didn’t do it?” 

“No, but that’s beside the point. When we went up to the citadel--”

“The pontoon didn’t just _happen_ to spring a leak, did it?” 

“Mother, please, I’m getting to it,” Eril-Fane said impatiently. “When we went up, we were met with an army of ghosts.” Here his agitation shifted to something more grave. “I recognized many of them. I saw Ari-Eil.” Suheyla paled. “They attacked. The sleigh was damaged. They would have killed us all, but we had just enough time to escape because we were warned.” He paused. “By a young girl with red hair.”

Suheyla gasped and collapsed onto the table, gripping the edges for stability. “Alive?” she asked, looking up at him. 

“Yes,” Eril-Fane said, feeling the shock, the devastation, the joy of it all over again. “It was her. My daughter. I only saw her for an instant up there, but we spoke again last night.” He sank to the table next to his mother and looked up at the citadel. “The dreams. All those years, they were really her. That’s her magic.”

Suheyla frowned. “Wait. The nightmares--”

“There are other survivors,” he cut in. “At least one, an older girl named Minya. She was the one that--saved Sarai.” _From her own father,_ he thought again, wretchedness crashing down. But-- _Sarai._ “That’s her name,” he said, voice thick with a much better emotion. “Sarai. And she was only six years old when she started, and all she knew was that the humans had tried to kill her and left her stranded in the sky. Of course she sent nightmares. 

“But she stopped. She doesn’t do it anymore, Mother, though I think she’s within her rights to. She’s a beautiful little girl, and she’s brave and kind and frightened.”

“My granddaughter,” Suheyla whispered. She clasped her son’s hand. “Oh, Eril-Fane, what are you going to do?”

He deflated. “I don’t know. I offered to come to come up again, to really meet her, and see what we could work out. She said that the other girl, Minya, would kill me if I came up. Kill anyone.” He swallowed. “I don’t know what I can do, but I’m going to keep her safe. I will never, ever again be the reason she’s in pain.”

“Are you talking about Sarai?” Lazlo Strange asked, emerging from the guest bedroom. He’d clearly just woken, but he seemed fully awake. Eril-Fane, in a split-second of paternal instinct, wondered wryly if the mention of his daughter had done that. Then the rest of his mind caught up. 

“How in the world do you know her name?” he asked, bewildered. 

The boy blushed. Young man? Eril-Fane thought highly of Lazlo, and he was twenty years old. When Eril-fane was twenty, he’d led an uprising. A slaughter. “We’ve been talking,” he said. “In dreams. She visited last night.” His eyes slowly met Eril-Fane’s again. “She clarified . . . everything.”

She’d told him, then. About the revolution, about the knifeshine and spreading blood. The wails of frightened babies, and, worse, the older children, begging and crying. The blur of blue and blood and screams. He couldn’t truly remember each of their faces, and somehow that made it harder. “Then you know what I did,” he rasped. 

Lazlo nodded, and the light in his eyes that had always shone when he looked at him--like he was one of those fairy-tale heroes in the flesh--had gone out. Eril-Fane was relieved, in a way. He’d never been worthy of it.

“Nothing will ever absolve it,” he said, remembering Sarai last night. The Carnage, she’d called it, and didn’t that fit? “And I didn’t want to do it. But you have to understand, Lazlo, the terror we faced. The children had magic that would set them high above us, and they could easily conquer us again when they grew up.” He swallowed. “Once, Isagol made a maid hate herself so much she gutted herself at the table because she dropped a napkin. Letha ate a man’s memories of his sister and said he wouldn’t need them anymore. Ikirok made it a challenge for himself to come up with new ways to execute us. That went on for two hundred years, Lazlo.”

“That wasn’t the children,” said Lazlo, flat and cold. “They were innocent.”

Eril-Fane curled in on himself. “I know.” His mother clasped his hand. 

The young man drew a breath and sat down on the cushions. He closed his eyes and recalled Sarai, the dream she’d shared with him in the Godslayer’s guest room. 

She’d appeared, spooked, and then reappeared a moment later. He’d prepared tea, and they’d meandered along awkwardly for a while--though he was rather proud of himself for pulling the chair out for her and then pushing it back in properly. She’d seemed frail, hollowed out. While enjoying their tea, she’d been anxious, and not, he felt, fully present. 

“Didn’t he know about you?” Lazlo had asked, about Eril-Fane. “If he’d known he had a child--”

“He knew,” she said tarty, and then asked what was under the covered dishes he’d conjured. Their games of creating cake had been fun--Sarai borrowed tastes her father had shared with her--but what he’d learned about her life had been disheartening. She’d been evasive. 

And then they’d let the mahalath come. 

Sarai had stared at her brown skin and black hair in the reflective pond for a long few moments before focusing on his blue skin. They’d talked of gods and gifts, suggestions based on magic she knew of and ones he'd read about: the ability to make things grown, or summon rain, or read minds, or fly. 

“But what about you?” he’d asked, giving her a pretty flower. “If you were human, you’d have to give up your gift, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess so.”

“But then you couldn’t be here with me.”

She’d laughed, tiredly. “Lazlo, if I was human, I’d be _in the house with you.”_ She flexed her fingers, pulled her hair. Brown and black, but still those blue eyes.

Lazlo, with a sudden stab of heat, found this a compelling argument.

Voice ragged with longing, she’d said, “I’d have grown up in my father’s house.”

“Well,” he said, trying to cheer her up, “now that we know you’re there, we can get you out.”

“What, down to Weep?” she’d said, and when her skin bloomed blue again, it seemed bitter. 

And then she’d explained what the humans had done. What her father had done. And then, before, what her mother had done. 

And then, tucked into his arms, what she, herself, had done. 

Sarai explained the nature of her gift: the hundred smithereens of darkness, how she screamed moths and her own mind down to Weep, how she could see through all their eyes and hear through all their ears. How she sent a torrent of nightmares down to the city, doing her best to keep humans from dwelling on the citadel. How she’d killed herself in her father’s lap, over and over again for years, before he shattered and clutched her ten-year-old hands and gave her an apology she couldn’t accept. How, after that, she’d built herself a world where she’d been a daughter that her father had loved instead of killed. 

And then, trembling, that he was finally asleep, and she needed to speak with him. 

“Do you want to leave even a little bit of yourself here?” Lazlo asked, holding her gently. “I can’t imagine that will be . . . easy, for you.”

She’d shaken her head. “I’ll come back if it’s awful,” she’d promised. He’d kissed her, very briefly, very shyly, on the cheek and promised to take her to the wingsmiths next time. She’d flushed magenta, nodded, and hadn’t returned. 

And now, her father and her grandmother were sitting in the home she might have known, had taught herself in dreams, discussing what to do about her. 

“Sarai saved us,” Lazlo said. “Now we have to save her.”

It wasn’t an option. The alternative was letting her remain imprisoned in the sky forever, or something even more unthinkable. Lazlo was prepared to argue--in his hearts, he was prepared to fight--but Eril-Fane didn’t force him to. 

“I know,” said the Godslayer. “We will.”

***

But they didn’t.

Her body broke over a garden gate near the home Eril-Fane barely had the chance to live in, and instead, she was saved by the same little girl who’d saved her fifteen years before. Lazlo carried her body up to the citadel, but not before Eril-Fane had the chance to see, or before Sarai saw the way he shattered as surely as her body had.

But dead, they already knew, didn’t mean gone. And their story wasn’t even close to over.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: I'm not sure if this was clear--this is an alternate universe where Sarai tries to use his guilt against him and sends these dreams in lieu of the nightmares based on fear that she said she gave him in canon. That being said, if y'all want to read this as canon compliant, you are absolutely welcome to do so! :)
> 
> the plot of Muse is exactly the same, but Eril-Fane and Sarai's "meeting" is a lot more emotional for them both. Also, he might join the crew of the Astral. I might write more of this verse, but it would probably just be little scenes, and only if anybody wants. 
> 
> expect . . . many more fics about Laini Taylor's work from me, and yell at me if I chicken out of posting it. (but not too much bc I'm very small and have very much homework.) Tell me what you think! Scream with me about these books!


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